The half-filled cup of wine in her hand still exuded a strong, intoxicating aroma. Mu Zhaoran tilted it back and poured it into a potted plant in the corner, then pressed the back of her hand against her cheek, muttering, “Just half a cup… shouldn’t be too bad, right?”
She had drunk enough of this wine by now to develop a bit of tolerance. At first, even a sip would set her mind ablaze, turning it into a molten blur; the next day she wouldn’t remember much, only vague, shameful, nauseating images that made her blush.
Gradually, she needed a full cup. Then two. Then three. The potency of the aphrodisiac wine seemed to weaken with time, and the memories became clearer—but she didn’t want to remember, and she refused to admit it.
She preferred to believe that it was the wine’s effect that had made her allow Yan Luo to do as he pleased, rather than that she had truly succumbed to the desires he awakened—even after rebirth, she still relived it in her dreams.
“Mu Zhaoran, stop being so pathetic!” She slapped her cheeks to wake herself, gathered her loose clothing, and rose, intending to push open the door and go outside.
She did not want to stay here and entangle herself with him for another night, even if it was only a dream.
But she hadn’t expected Yan Luo to arrive so quickly. As soon as she opened the door, she collided with a firm chest at the entrance.
Tonight, he wore a deep blue robe the color of the night, with gold patterns along the sleeve edges. The collar was neatly folded, the belt tightly fastened, and his face was still partially hidden behind a thin silver mask, concealing nearly all of his skin—including the dense burn marks from lightning.
Only a small portion of scarring was visible from the collar, spreading like the tip of a withered branch down to his Adam’s apple.
The meticulous attire made him look less like someone coming to sleep with her and more like a national tutor preparing for court duties.
Yet tonight, the only business he had to attend to was… to be with her.
Mu Zhaoran noticed the wet strands of his long hair, just recently washed and loosely tied at the back with a hairband. The ends draped over his shoulder, leaving a visible wet mark.
She lifted her gaze to his throat and saw the scar there. Perhaps because she felt guilty, she no longer detested his injuries as she once had; instead, she felt a pang of concern.
Even so, she had no desire to become entangled with him. He was an enemy of the Heavenly Dao Palace, and she did not wish to repeat the mistakes of her previous life. Their paths were inevitably separate.
Annoyed, Mu Zhaoran pushed against his chest and said, “I’ve decided to forget you and start over. Can you stop haunting my dreams?”
Though directed at Yan Luo, her words were more a rebuke to herself—a reminder that, after all, this was her dream.
She had resolved to leave the debts of her past life behind, to avoid remembering him, to avoid any entanglement—and yet, why did he still appear in her dreams?
“Mu Zhaoran, wake up! Stop dreaming!”
Yan Luo was unshaken by her pushes. He grabbed her wrist with one hand, cupped her jaw with the other, and leaned down. The eyes beneath his mask burned with restrained fury.
“Impossible.” He spat the word through clenched teeth. His tall frame pressed her back, forcing her to retreat into the hall.
The door slammed shut behind him.
A faint, irritable laugh escaped beneath the mask. “Mu Zhaoran, do you think you can summon me and dismiss me at will? Wasn’t your tongue once skilled in sweet words? Now you don’t need me, and you can’t even spare a few kind words?”
Mu Zhaoran felt as if she had returned to her previous life—trapped by a relentless phantom, unable to break free, even in her dreams.
Outside, the night sky had grown dark, and thunder rumbled from the eaves. Forked lightning tore through the clouds, illuminating the room with jagged arcs. She had nowhere to flee, pinned to the tabletop beneath his weight.
He leaned down, and through the cold silver mask, pressed against her lips with deliberate patience.
Her soft lips ached against the patterned metal, and instinctively she began speaking to placate him. “Don’t use the mask… I want to kiss you… let me kiss you…”
Before her words could finish, his warm, damp breath brushed her face, hovering just above her nose, while his pale gray eyes remained fixed on her.
He was waiting for her to act on her words.
Even if they were words she didn’t truly mean.
Mu Zhaoran knew what to do. Ten years of bending to his will had conditioned her body.
She cupped his temples, tilted her head up, and pressed her lips to his. She kissed along the sharp line of his jaw, soft pecks at first, then pressing fully onto his lips, her tongue tracing the old, split scar.
His breathing deepened, and his lips and tongue pressed harshly against hers, biting and sucking until she gasped in pain before he relented slightly. He swept over her lips again, parted her teeth, and entered her mouth.
Crushed under his weight on the tabletop, Mu Zhaoran gasped for air, her hands weakly clutching his shoulders, fingers tangling in his damp hair and loosening the hairband.
A strand of wet hair fell across her eye.
She stared, half-dazed, into the eyes beneath the mask, seeing the pale irises darken with desire, feeling as if her mind was being drawn in. Though she had only drunk half a cup, her thoughts blurred again.
His wet, heated kiss moved down to her jaw, neck, and collarbone. The strand of hair slid across her eye and down her chest, the cool touch sending a shiver through her.
She remembered the karmic lotus mark on her chest and tried to cover it, but her wrist was seized and pinned to the table.
Her eyes locked with his, scanning her skin in a way that sent tiny shivers across her body, finally settling on her chest.
It wasn’t the karmic mark he was staring at.
Relieved, she remembered that the system’s mark was engraved on her soul—hidden from others. After all, this was her dream. Even if he could see, it didn’t matter.
Relaxing, she studied his eyes more closely and noticed where his gaze truly focused.
His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. Her breath caught; her cheeks flushed, her heart pounded wildly. Unsure if it was anticipation or embarrassment, she weakly struggled and murmured, “Yan Luo…”
The name barely left her lips before his head bent down, cutting off the rest, pressing her mouth into a kiss. Tears pricked at her eyes.
Hopelessly, she thought, It’s just a dream… what harm in letting myself enjoy it?
Mu Zhaoran had always sought pleasure, not pain. Yan Luo clearly understood her, knowing exactly how to bring her satisfaction quickly. The cool strands of hair slid down, pooling over her abdomen, highlighting the contrast of black and white with vivid red.
His hair was cold… his tongue was hot…
Thunder rumbled outside, yet the full moon still hung in the sky, fixed in the corner of the window. The night stretched on endlessly.
Mu Zhaoran lay on the bed, her pupils vacant, her mind exploding with flashes of lightning, as if she had been floating on a cloud peak, unable to descend. She drifted, half-conscious, hearing the fragmented sobs that escaped her own throat.
How long she remained in that daze, she did not know. Suddenly, a low whisper reached her ears: “It’s time to wake up.”
With a rustle, the window slid open, and a gust of icy wind swept into the room, stirring the hanging curtains and washing away the lingering, intimate scent. It hit Mu Zhaoran’s face.
Her dazed eyes cleared slightly. The surroundings grew indistinct, the pressure at her waist vanished, and the embrace behind her was suddenly gone. A strange emptiness gripped her chest, a hollow loss that she could not name.
Cold invaded her meridians. Mu Zhaoran jerked her eyes open and found herself surrounded by a thick, swirling white mist. The light in her pupils gradually focused. She was fully awake.
The Wash-Soul Pool.
Right—she was still inside the Wash-Soul Pool.
She had fallen asleep here and had dreamt—again—the same dream.
Blushing with shame, she covered her face. Nervously, she lifted her head and met the cold black eyes of You Guxue, seated at the central platform.
In that instant, a wave of discomfort surged through her—she felt exposed, as if caught in the act of wrongdoing. Fear, shock, and guilt churned together until they became a burning, flaring anger directed at him: how dare he look at her?
She averted her gaze in frustration. Though immersed in the icy pool, her whole body felt as if it were aflame.
The fluctuation of her emotions caused the white mist in the pool to stir violently. The spiritual energy flowing through her meridians reversed, almost tearing through them and threatening to escape her spiritual apertures.
She bent over in pain, but a calm voice called to her.
“Mu Zhaoran. Look at me.”
Instinctively, she lifted her eyes. A thread of sword energy shot from his fingertips, stabilizing the turbulent mist in the pool. At the same time, his cold voice floated into her ear:
“Endless ice, all things still. Calm your mind and breath, focus your gaze solely on me…”
It was the Calm Heart Technique.
Under his frost-like gaze, her turbulent emotions began to solidify, to stabilize. She closed her eyes and recited the Calm Heart Technique in her mind, following his rhythm.
The pain in her meridians eased. Spiritual energy flowed smoothly through her, circulating along her channels, exiting at the Yongquan point in her feet, carrying away the impurities of her spiritual energy and sinking to the pool’s bottom.
She was not the only one in the Wash-Soul Pool struggling with distracting thoughts, falling into countless illusory dreams, causing the pool to churn. But You Guxue’s sword energy acted like a reliable shield, slicing through the mist to suppress the turbulent spiritual energy.
His recitation was clear, calm, like a mountain spring washing over the mind, as if he truly knew no human passion or desire could disturb him. His six senses were even calmer than those of a Zen monk, able to soothe the agitation in any heart.
When his chanting ceased, the surrounding stillness was broken by faint noises—the other disciples, having completed their Wash-Soul practice. You Guxue withdrew the sword energy restraining the pool over Mu Zhaoran.
“Those who are finished may leave.”
One by one, the disciples exited the pool, bowing, saying little, hurrying back to bathe and change.
Though the Wash-Soul Pool purged spiritual impurities rather than visible dirt, no one felt fully refreshed immediately upon leaving.
When Mu Zhaoran finished, opened her eyes, the hall was empty—except for the diligent senior brother still guarding her.
She wished he weren’t there.
In such a solemn place, she had just dreamt a shameful dream, and of all people, it was in front of someone she both feared and disliked. She wished she could sink into the floor and disappear.
She dared not meet You Guxue’s gaze. Hastily, she exited the pool, slipped on her shoes, bowed briefly across the distance, and darted out, running across the narrow suspension bridge to the crane waiting atop the pavilion. She leapt onto its back and escaped.
Once everyone had left, there was no longer a need for You Guxue to guard anyone, but he did not move. Alone on the central platform, he stared at his fingers.
A lingering warmth remained on his fingertips, a dry, burning sensation in his throat, stirring an impatient craving for something tangible to quench it.
Suddenly, the settled white mist surged again, like a raging tide. The entire Wash-Soul Hall trembled; spiritual energy surged, almost flooding the entire pool.
You Guxue frowned, the waves like ripples over a once-calm lake. Finally, in the solitude, a hidden surge of desire leaked from his normally cold body.
He squinted, tasting a faint sweetness within the pain, and licked his lips with satisfaction.
A low hum of a sword rose from within him—the Xing Tian Sword erupted from his spine, hovering before him. Its light enveloped him, reflecting a pair of eyes entangled with love and hate.
The sword vibrated, attempting to suppress the storm in his eyes. You Guxue snorted softly. “So noisy.”
He pressed his hand to the hilt, forcing the vibrating blade slowly back into its scabbard, laying it across his knees.
Spiritual energy in the hall continued to churn, the mist rising and falling. Lifting his eyelids, You Guxue noticed a pair of snow-white foot coverings left on the stones at the edge of the pool.